


Easy Dances

by Cawaiiey



Series: Cade's McHanzo Week Works!! [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: First Kisses, M/M, McHanzo Week 2016, alcohol mention, ask to tag, blood mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:25:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8899222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cawaiiey/pseuds/Cawaiiey
Summary: It starts like a dance. One advances, the other retreats. Until they come together, meeting in the middle.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i said i wasn't gonna do anything for mchanzo week and look here i am 
> 
> take THIS *throws it on y'alls feeds*

It started like a dance. 

Counted in double time, beats of one-two one-two, where one would advance, the other would retreat, then vice versa. Keeping each other at arm’s length so they couldn’t get too close, with only the teasing promise of potential keeping both parties interested. There would be a lull, a dead spot in their intricate movements around each other, and then one would flash a smile, or bat an eye, and the spark of interest would be enough to keep them chasing one another. 

When he first came to base, he’d been bitter and volatile, a powder keg ready to explode, and McCree had always liked playing with fire, didn’t mind if he got burned. He took the first step forward, in the form of a grin, a hat tip, a wink, and Hanzo had retreated, with scathing looks, scowls, venomous glares. Then, Hanzo would surprise him, with wicked smirks, playful comments, a silver tongue, and McCree could do little other than answer with wide eyes and incredulous looks. One advances, the other retreats.

It started like a dance. 

Tentative acquaintances soon became fast friends, settling into comfortable teasing, watching each other’s backs on the battlefield, sharing alcohol and trading stories in the evenings on base. An easy rhythm, a backbeat to their dance, slowing to quarter time. One-two, the approach, three-four, the retreat. In, out, around each other, but never touching, never broaching the line they’d made between themselves without even thinking about it. Never taking it a step too far, never crossing what  they’d drawn in the sand, just following the dance, the rhythm.

Rhythms can be upset so easily. 

A slip, a misstep, in the form of blood on the concrete, of a bullet puncturing skin and ripping through tendons, so close to bone. A reminder of mortality. A reminder of the fleeting, the momentary, how they cannot live their lives dancing around the what-ifs and could-have-beens. 

“It was just my arm, Hanzo.”

“It could have been something else, Jesse.”

When did Shimada-san become Hanzo, when did McCree become Jesse? When did the line get blurred like it had? 

When did the dance stop including retreating? Was it when Hanzo leaned his head on his shoulder on the transport back home after one mission, dozing softly? Was it when McCree took a sip from his sake gourd, which was still warm from the archer’s mouth, and the knowledge that his lips had been around it had shot through him like electricity? Was it when teasing, fleeting touches started to linger, longer and longer, until a hand on the small of Hanzo’s back or a head on McCree’s shoulder wasn’t out of the ordinary anymore? 

The rhythm shifts back into double time. Counts of one-two, one-two, as the space between them shortens, the line is stepped over, and no one quite knows who made the first move. 

It comes as no surprise to either of them- one night, when they’re partaking in each other’s company, they kiss. 

Neither of them are strangers to things like passion, to kissing, certainly not. Nearing their forties like the both of them are, they’ve dabbled in trysts and romance. But this, this is different, for the both of them. 

McCree’s kissed people before, but none of them sent electricity up his spine, none of them had lips that meshed against his so perfectly, none of them could make his knees weak with just the chaste press of their mouths together like Hanzo did. He tasted like the bitter tang of the sake he had been sipping on, a sharp contrast to the bite of whiskey on McCree’s tongue. He tasted like coming home. He tasted right, and he could see that Hanzo thought the same thing, when they parted and stared at each other in silence.

Soft words, “darlin’, that was,” silenced with another kiss, a deeper one, with lips parted just enough to tease with the promise of  _ more _ , “Hanzo, does this mean you- that we,” and yet another kiss, desperation written in the seam of his lips, in the insistent press of their mouths together, in the way he clambers onto McCree’s lap and cups his scruffy face in his palms, “sugar, give me a moment--”

“No, I will not,” he growls breathily, stealing the very air from Jesse’s lungs at the desperation underlying his tone, “I am tired of us dancing around this. I do not wish to put this off any longer. Kiss me, Jesse McCree.” 

And he does. He does so with fervor, with vigor, indulging him while putting the question on both their minds off to the side, at least for the moment. For now, the dance is crescendoing, and they’re both swept off their feet at how the rapid-fire beating of their hearts becomes the rhythm to which they sway, to which they fall together. 

It started like a dance, with lips pressed like bodies together on the ballroom floor, with mouths parting on the opening beat, with tongues meeting and swirling together. Hanzo bites and sucks and teases Jesse, luring him into a feverish tango that they’re learning together. Jesse returns the favor, until they’re breathless, panting into each other’s mouths. The question he’d been trying to ask earlier bounds to the tip of his tongue, and he succumbs to the desire even as Hanzo is leaning back in, drunk off more than just the liquor they’d been imbibing. 

“What does this make us, Hanzo? What are we?”

It makes him pause. He stares, dumbfounded, those thick brows knitted together by the creases along his forehead. McCree returns the look, just as confused, as to what this makes the archer and the gunslinger. Friends is too little, lovers is too much, but then again, he’s never been in a situation like this before. Hanzo seems to have reached a conclusion, as he’s pulling away slightly to get McCree’s attention, a determined expression replacing the confusion from before. McCree spurs him on with hands lingering on his hips. 

“We do not need a label for this,” Hanzo starts, and Jesse’s brows furrow a bit more, but he surges on, an explanation to the gunslinger’s unsaid question, “I do not want another as I want you, Jesse McCree. There is no moniker that truly encapsulates the depth of what I feel for you. We do not need a label. I do not need a label. I only require you.” 

Jesse can’t help but huff out a small laugh, breaking the tension that had grown taut between them. Hanzo’s look of confusion comes back, those eyes narrowing at him. He’d always been dramatic. McCree raises his hands up and cups Hanzo’s face, running his calloused thumbs over the high curve of his cheekbones, soothing the riled up dragon easily. He calms under his touch so quickly- it’s admittedly adorable. Jesse pulls him down to run the length of his craggy nose along the regal slope of Hanzo’s, delighting in the soft sigh that Hanzo lets out at the action. 

“And here I thought I’d be the one to make yer heart skip a beat.” 

“You say that as if you have never succeeded in quickening my heart rate.”

“Oh, so you admit it! Couldn’t tell, what with the resting bitch face.” 

“I take it back, I do not need you.” 

Hanzo says that, but he’s smiling, his lips are turned up, and he makes no move to climb off of his perch on Jesse’s lap. McCree tilts his head and leans in a little further, so close to connecting their lips but not close enough. Hanzo hums, soft and inquisitive, and McCree answers the unspoken question. 

“Can I change yer mind?”

“Perhaps.” 

The beat of their hearts serves as the metronome for a different dance now, as they slip into quarter time, counts of one-two-three-four. Their smiling lips find each other once more.


End file.
